


all love has ever been is deadly

by roboticdisposition



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Coital, Violence, because i will die for him, he likes: one of the above, mickey gets fucked, mickey knows how to be rough, no injuries, not how to be gentle, only minor tho - Freeform, set after mickey gets out of juvie, spoiler alert he doesn't like the feelings, thank u goodnight, then mickey has feelings, this is self-indulgent mickey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 19:51:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20895191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticdisposition/pseuds/roboticdisposition
Summary: Mickey was in it for the rush, the adrenaline, the rough aggression, the way Ian did him just right. He’s never signed up for something promising, something soft, gentle, something that offers something more. It’s distant, a little out of reach, but it’s taunting him. It’s taunting him, and he can’t keep still. He tells himself he doesn’t want it, he just wants it rotten and raw - sex, not intimacy, but he doesn’t know who he’s kidding.





	all love has ever been is deadly

**Author's Note:**

> hey i am a big bitch who can and will throttle for mickey fucking milkovich
> 
> i'm sorry but i have never loved a character more than i love mickey milkovich and i will never shut up about that
> 
> this is horribly self-indulgent, set like early seasons, when mickey's out of juvie, and they have sex but it's like Meaningful and mickey is not Good with what that Entails so this is the fallout
> 
> mickey l***s him though. that says loves. thank u
> 
> also alert this has one use of the word f*g in it so just that's a prewarning
> 
> thank u for reading i am a dumbass and i hope u enjoy xx

“I need a fucking cigarette,” Mickey itches, holding his wrists to his chest like he’s bruised, like they’re broken and he’s still in juvie, like he’s stuck in bed with a boy that’s asking something of a heart he thought was charred.

Ian sighs, his head against his pillow. Mickey can’t stop fidgeting, the sheets rustling over their skin, stained with tainted memories, moments he can never get back, moments he can never forget. “Go fucking get one then.” Ian watches him carefully, soft against the mattress, staring up at the grey-tinted ceiling of Mickey’s bedroom. He’s so out of place, lying like a God, Mickey thinks it criminal.

“You have any?” Mickey shuffles, twitching like he’s taken a hit. But he hasn’t, he’s fucking sober, and it’s fucking late, and he wants a fucking cigarette. He can’t think, he doesn’t want to think. He just wants a cigarette.

“Maybe in my jeans,” Ian hums mindlessly, tracing patterns across the creases in the pillowcase, pulling the sheets up to cover his naked chest. The blissed-out afterglow taunts him, and Mickey watches as Ian bathes in it, softly, gently. He can’t stop himself from fucking thinking. “Get one if you want.”

“Fuck,” Mickey grunts, clutching his head in his hands. It’s starting to feel like the end of the world, lying in the aftermath, tied up with a red-haired boy. It wasn’t supposed to end like this, with soft rosy promises, open-mouthed kisses, foreheads pressed together in the climax. It shouldn’t be like this. It can’t be like this.

Mickey was in it for the rush, the adrenaline, the rough aggression, the way Ian did him just right. He’s never signed up for something promising, something soft, gentle, something that offers something more. It’s distant, a little out of reach, but it’s taunting him. It’s taunting him, and he can’t keep still. He tells himself he doesn’t want it, he just wants it rotten and raw - sex, not intimacy, but he doesn’t know who he’s kidding.

“What?” Ian tilts his head, propping himself up with his hand. He looks heavenly; Mickey wants to murder him. “Calm down, will you?” He adds, raising his eyebrows as Mickey twitches, curled up fists, bare shoulders tensed.

“Fuck off,” Mickey closes his eyes, seeing white when he presses his fingers across his eyelids. He never wants to see him again, except he does, he fucking does. He thinks it easier if he had the guts to grab his gun - any one of his guns - and tell Ian to fuck off. But he can’t move. He’s stuck in a parallel, lying in bed, during the end of the world, with a boy that ended up mattering by his side.

He doesn’t want him to matter. He was never supposed to matter. “What the fuck’s happened to you,” Ian says, his tone rough, scratching over the sirens in the distance, “You’re usually done for once we fuck, now you’re even more fucking wound up-”

“Fuck off,” Mickey says again, “Or I’ll fucking make you.”

Ian laughs, unphased by the glare he receives. “You won’t,” He shrugs, and it winds him up worse. Mickey’s digging fingernails into his palms, his legs stuck under the sheets, buried in the wake of it all, and his head’s spinning. He needs a fucking cigarette, but he’s too distracted. Ian’s cockiness rubs him raw, driving nails through his skull and pins through his veins. The audacity of the smug look painted across his cheeks digs through to his lungs until he can’t breathe, the air’s lost, and Mickey reckons Ian’s stole it all.

“Fucking hand me a cigarette,” Mickey hisses, it’s blunt, his voice torn into shreds, traces of power lost, replaced in tendered blood. He feels sick, mistakes covering the bed between them, past and present, present and future - though he doesn’t want to think about the latter. Mickey watches Ian sit up, the sheets falling at his waist, baring his skin under the pale lamp-lit room. He’s bigger now, than when Mickey left for juvie. He’s been working out. Mickey decided the instant he saw him he hated it on principle, except he doesn’t, he doesn’t at all.

“Fucking get one yourself,” Ian says like a challenge, but Mickey isn’t up for debate. He flips his body over, pinning down Ian’s chest with his knee and a wrist held down in both hands. Ian loses his breath, exhaling slowly towards the ceiling, but Mickey’s holding him still, it gives him something of a rush, the control, taking back something he’d lost along the way. He tries to use it, the power, to make up for it, the way Ian stole the breath from his throat, the blood from his veins, but it doesn’t work. It doesn’t fucking work.

Ian tries to squirm, resist the pressure against his arms, only Mickey holds him flat. “Fuck off, will you?” Mickey says, spitting words like venom. He feels fury swirl through his blood, rising fires through his lungs, smoke though his mouth. He can’t breathe, he’s too close. Ian’s looking at him with warm eyes, gentle through a glassy stare, and Mickey reckons he means it, the unspoken words, untouched gestures, slow moments like secrets shared.

He immediately pulls away, shooting himself off the bed, grabbing his boxers over his hips and digging around the room for Ian’s jeans. It’s carnage, it’s destruction, tossing t-shirts and empty bottles across the floor to grab at the square hidden in Ian’s pocket.

“Come back,” Ian says softly, in that tone, that fucking tone, the tone that cuts through the bullshit, makes Mickey want to believe, makes him hopeful, makes him stupid. He hates it, he hates him. But he doesn’t. He can’t, even if he wants to. He’s hopeless, desperate for something, destined for nothing. He wants something endless, something tender, something unconditional. Ian’s offering it to him on a plate, and Mickey wants to throw it against the wall.

“Fuck off,” Mickey says again, but he perches on the edge of his bed, the sheets unfurled across his side, Ian’s covering his lower half. He reaches for the lighter and blows smoke into the air, tracing patterns like he’s looking for an answer in the trails of tobacco.

“That better?” Ian again, warm and gentle in the evening glow, the flickering lamp on its way out and the edges of the doorway giving out light from the hallway. Mickey wants to throttle him, he decides. He thinks that best for everyone. He can’t fucking deal with this - deal with him. He doesn’t want to, he doesn't fucking want to.

“No,” Mickey grunts, bouncing his knees with his toes ground into the floorboards. He can’t stop moving, fidgeting. He wants to get that look out of his face, that look, and that voice, the way Ian leant down, pressing kisses along his jawline, whispering gentle confessions into his ear, thrusting into him too slowly for Mickey to be in control.

He can’t breathe, the pressure burning too tight in his lungs. He wants out. He doesn’t want the soft looks, gentle promises, rosy weekends like white-picket fences. That’s not him. That’s never been him. Mickey doesn’t think that’s ever going to be him. But it doesn’t stop him wanting to be. And he wants it, too fucking much.

Mickey looks over his shoulder and catches Ian watching him from the headboard. He’s glowing, this radiance that cuts through skin, burns flesh like fire when Ian’s hand reaches out. He’s stupidly warm, and cosy, and he’s tucked under the sheets, eyes fluttering like he wants to fall asleep. Mickey takes a drag, hoping to choke on the smoke as it goes down.

“I fucking hate you sometimes,” Mickey whispers as he exhales. The words fall out as Mickey watches himself bleed across the sheets, as Ian’s hand falls limp by his side, words impossible to take back, words he doesn’t mean, words that cut him deep.

“You don’t-”

“How the fuck do you know?” Mickey shouts, clenching his fists and standing up suddenly. “You don’t fucking know me, Gallagher, you don’t know a single fucking thing.”

Ian watches him, tilts his head impassive, and Mickey can’t fucking breathe.

“I fucking hate you,” He says again, spitting words across his room; Mickey thinks he feels the world grabbing at his feet, shaking the walls, echoing through Chicago, but he unclenches his eyes and nothing’s changed at all. “You can’t-”

“I can’t what?” Ian cuts in, his posture tense and his words harsh, “I can’t what, Mickey? You gonna fucking tell me what I can do now?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey ticks around the bed, burned red edges to his figure taking over like a shadow. “Fuck off. This is all your fault, you fucking bitch.” He stubs out his cigarette on his dresser, takes out another of Ian’s with a snarl, holding it between his lips as he searches for the lighter.

“Yeah, alright,” Ian laughs bitterly, “Of course it is, because it always is, isn’t it?” He swings his legs off the bed, searching for his boxers in the mess on the floor. Mickey watches him, flicking the lighter between his fingers, watching the flame distort Ian’s shadow, feeling it taint the skin that covered him minutes before, legs wrapped around his waist, scratching indents into his shoulders.

“Fuck off,” Mickey says quietly, though it’s just as deadly. He flicks the lighter, finally catching his cigarette, exhaling slowly as Ian’s figure moves through the haze of smoke.

“Why should I?” Ian’s voice rises, footsteps storming. “Hey? Why should I?” And then he’s standing in front of him, broad shoulders paired with a tinted heat to his gaze. Mickey doesn’t back down, he stands there steady, breathing in cologne and sex as he chokes on the feeling, the memories, the blackened pulse in his chest.

“You’ve fucked me, haven’t you?” Mickey snarls, “You’ve done all you need to, gave it to me nice and fucking good, yeah? So your business is over, you’ve done what I needed you to do, so you can fuck off now, how about that?” He steps forward, looking into Ian’s face, wondering if he can see the lies across his own, his eyes flickering, memories overlapping. And then Ian’s face is contoured and there’s that look again, from when he was on top, pulsing into him, soft whispers into his cheeks, and it’s crossed with Ian’s gaze, rough lines and bloodshot eyes.

“If all you’re looking for to get fucked, you’d go and get any fucking fag from anywhere, but you don’t, you came straight out of juvie and came to me, didn’t you?”

“You’re in my fucking bed, Gallagher, you came to me. What, think you’re special, do you?” Mickey laughs, the tone jolted and harsh. It’s starting to feel more like a nightmare, but it’s comfortable. He finds solace when his tone is bitten raw, when there’s no traces of kisses, softness, tactility. That’s not him, that’s not fucking him. He didn’t sign up for that, he’s never signed up for that. This is what he does best, clashing, fighting, sinking fangs into promises, watching blood splatter against the walls.

Ian looks at him and Mickey feels like he’s burning through his skull, it’s cruel, hatred, bitterness between bodies as Ian’s palms push against his shoulders, slamming Mickey back against his door, pinning him there steady as Ian steps closer. “Just as good of a lier as ever, aren’t you, Mick? Don’t wanna admit it, do you? That this isn’t just fucking sex-”

“What’s there to admit?” Mickey shakes his head, laughing as his insides start to shrivel, his organs slowly bleeding out. “All of this is just fucking sex, you fucking bitch.”

Ian shoves him harder, pushing him back against the wood. Mickey narrows his eyes, feeling his muscles tense, fingers grappling against his shoulders. He doesn’t resist, he doesn’t fight it, he lets Ian hold him against the door, pushing him back like he’s made of glass and waiting to shatter. He supposes there’s some truth to that, after all.

“So you really haven’t changed then,” Ian says softly, breathing into his face, his eyes locked like targets. “Always so adamant to deny how you feel-”

“So you know how I fucking feel now, do you?” Mickey snaps, his blood simmering as his body feels drained, his organs lost in a fever, his veins sharp through skin. “‘Cos I’ll tell you this now, you have fucking no idea, Gallagher. All you are to me is an easy fuck.”

Mickey shoves him off, twisting his weight to push Ian back. He drags out his cigarette, blowing smoke towards the ceiling, buzzing a haze like clouds, like this should be heaven, like maybe it would be, if Mickey could accept it. But he can’t, he can’t, because he’s spouting words like acid, like poison, like that’s all his body contains.

It’s all raw, rough, rotten, that’s all Mickey is, that’s all he wants. He lost it, sight of that, when Ian was pounding him dry, draped over his body, pressing him into the mattress with sweet words and gentle kisses. It was all too light, it was all too airy. It’s all too fucking perfect.

Mickey feels something in his heart snap, chords chiming, connections cut. He feels the warmth injected through his bloodstream start to fade away, Ian’s body lost, the tether cut. Ian sits on the edge of Mickey’s bed, watching him like a curse, fading away. Mickey feels it then, his heart set on fire, Ian the match. He feels it and he wants to rip it out with his bare hands, cover the floor in blood and drape the walls with his heart.

“You’re fucking delusional,” Ian shakes his head, grabbing for his jeans. Mickey feels his body tense, freeze up as he waits for Ian to pull them on, slam the door, run home, leave the house quiet again, but he doesn’t. Mickey waits, but Ian only reaches for a cigarette. “You’re fucking delusional,” He repeats, reaching out for the lighter, “And you’re a fucking liar.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey clenches his fists, his head pounding. He feels the life draining out of him slowly, dissipating across his bedroom floor. He sees Ian’s words, gentle kisses and promises against his jaw, floating through the smoke, spelt out, ripped apart. He feels traces of his body holding him down, sore thighs and a bruised neck. It’s deadly, he thinks. Ian’s fucking deadly.

Ian laughs, he laughs and lies back on top of the sheets, his cigarette perched between two fingers. “I’m not going anywhere, you fucking-”

“Fuck you,” Mickey chokes out, watching Ian lie on his side of the bed, bare legs kicked out over the sheets, his shoulders still shiny with a slight sheen of sweat, and his fingers holding the smoke carefully, watching him paralysed in the doorway.

Mickey stumbles, taking a drag. He’s stuck in this parallel, Ian in his bed, Ian burning his chest. He’s stuck and he wants to throw Ian onto the streets, tell him to go home, tell him to fuck off, tell him he hates him. He’s stuck, and he means none of it. He thinks of soft words, gentle kisses, promises fucked into him in the dark, dimly lit under the night. He thinks of Ian in his bed, his skin, his body, the way he reaches for Mickey’s hand when he starts to fall asleep.

He thinks of Ian and thinks he hates him, that he wants to throw fists into his skull, into his ribs, blood painted on his knuckles. He thinks of Ian and thinks maybe he missed him in juvie, for maybe more than sex. He thinks of Ian and takes a drag of his cigarette, before stumbling closer, shoving him over, and lying beside him on the bed.

Ian sighs softly as he rolls over, breathing smoke onto Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey focuses on his own cigarette, stubbing it out in the ashtray, but his eyes are stuck on Ian. He’s watching him without looking, Ian shuffling, rearranging the sheets, tucking them over his legs, trying to cover Mickey in the process. Mickey feels tense, his bones snapped, his organs stolen, his blood in trails across the floor, printed all over Ian’s hands.

But he doesn’t care - tries, not to care. His body sinks into the mattress, Ian breathing gently by his side. It’s his impact, more than anything, he tries to reason, but he doesn’t get very far before Ian plants a kiss on his shoulder, his red-stained strands pressed along Mickey’s pillow. He calls it too close, starts to shuffle away, before he stops himself. He lies there, staring at the grey-stained ceiling, and thinks of what he has to lose.

He turns on his side, watching Ian’s eyes catch light of his own. He feels the heat of the match, the fuse, the gasoline lit fire, and he stretches out his fist across his cheek, tugging him closer in the flames and presses their lips together slowly.

Ian moans, fingers coming up to grab Mickey’s neck as he presses himself closer, breathing him in gently. Mickey’s lost, the smoke like a haze of obscurity, only he kisses Ian harder, bites his teeth into his lip, and settles into the flames.

“That an apology then?” Ian asks, breaking away from the kiss, panting heavily against Mickey’s cheek. He brushes his fingers through his hair, too gentle, too fucking gentle, but Mickey tries not to reach for a gun.

“No,” He says, sighing, “Fuck off.” He meets their lips together again, and Ian’s smiling, he’s smiling and it’s fucking up their kiss. He resists the passing surge of energy - irritation, and groans instead, Ian sucks on his lower lip in response, but he still breaks away smiling. “Fucking bitch, stop it,” Mickey grumbles into his mouth, but he’s smiling too, tasting him as they meet again.

“Yeah?” Ian says, continuing to grin. He presses a final kiss against Mickey’s lips, only it’s too careful, it speaks louder than words. It scares him, it fucking terrifies him, and Mickey’s frozen, looking into Ian’s face, his fingers draped across his cheek. The moment’s too tender, too soft, too gentle. There’s nothing rough in the perimeter. But Mickey’s warm, he’s comfortable, he feels something twitching in his chest, something charred, something battered, something like a heart.

“Fuck off,” Mickey sighs, and his blood burns like fire, like fury, only nothing’s there to be found on the surface. It’s internal, the blackened sense of ash and char. It’s all internal, because the air’s filled with something unspeakable, something that he’ll never admit, but he feels it. He feels it warm, with Ian looking at him soft, eyes bright, whispered words, soft kisses.

He’s delicate, lying with his legs buried under the sheets, staring at warm lips, freckled cheeks. He’s delicate, and Mickey’s never had a feeling like it. He hates it, he fucking hates it. Only that’s a lie. It’s a fucking lie, because Ian reaches for his hand, breathing softly into his neck, and he feels warm, like softness, like contrast, something that isn’t rough and tainted. He feels it and he thinks himself a liar, because he’s never hated this, he’s never going to hate this, not with a gentle pulse through his chest lighting up what’s left of his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> hey i hope u enjoyed this i rly big hearts for reading i appreciate it a whole lot
> 
> pls comment and kudos cos i will thrive immensely thank u please
> 
> i love fucking stupid fucking idiot mickey twatface fucking milkovich and no i will not shut up about it
> 
> thank u goodnight i hope u enjoyed xxx


End file.
